Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Recently I was contracted to write plot synopses for upcoming DVD releases. Due to the rush and excitement of the holidays, I was unable to preview each selection. Still, after years of movie-going, I find that it is rather easy to dial in, and with a surprising degree of accuracy.

So here are some releases that will be coming your way after the holidays. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

NEW ON DVD: RELEASES THAT I HAVEN’T SEEN AND HEARTILY RECOMMEND:

CHELSEA ON THE ROCKS: Follow the adventures of Chelsea, that lovable li’l scamp probably from Manhattan, who gets into piles of mischief, mostly when she is walking on rocks somewhere in Scotland or something.

CRAZY FOR CARS: Documents the stories of twelve different people who were diagnosed obsessive-compulsive personality disorder due to their deep and abiding affection for cars. Filmed at the historic Sommerville Asylum in Belmont, Massachusetts, this documentary includes historic footage of Sylvia Plath, Rick James and James Taylor all looking depressed and sad and staring out the windows at cars rushing by.

PLANET HULK: The Hulk awakens one balmy summer day to discover that he is living on a planet. Chaos ensues.

THE BEST OF LIBERACE Vol. 1 & 2: The director’s cut. Includes legendary ‘behind the scenes’ sequences of Liberace shopping for hosiery, walking in gardens that are filled with peonies, and at Boston Garden, watching Gorilla Monsoon trying to gouge out the eyes of Haystacks Calhoun, whereupon Haystacks Calhoun gets angry and does mean things to him and takes away his horseshoe, much to the delight of Liberace who claps a lot.

WHEN SOLDIERS CRY: Sad but true story that tracks the lives of four of our boys in uniform who see terrible things and then act like pussies.

BLACK DYNAMITE: Starring Mike White

GOOD HAIR: There is great hair, and there is bad hair, and then, somewhere in between, there is good hair. Narrated by Sandra Bullock.

HEART IS A DRUM MACHINE: Although unrated, the mature subject matter is recommended for adult audiences only. Narrated by Quentin Tarantino.

MARTHA SPEAKS: MARTHA SAYS IT WITH FLOWERS: From the fragile Azalea to the lasting affection of the Zinnia, no one says “Flower! Flower!”quite like Martha, (Flower!) who is, I am assuming, Martha Stewart, (Flower!) who in this 5 minute single take documentary adores saying the names of almost every flower you can imagine, and some that you actually rarely do, like, for example, the Zinnia, (Flower!) which symbolizes lasting affection. And Oh! the Xeranthemum* (Flower!)

*symbolizes immortality, like Odin, the one-eyed all-father of Asgard of the Nine Worlds.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Well, they don't really ask me that, but sometimes I go up to people and say, "Do you know who the greatest poet writing today is?" And usually they say either "No. Who is it?" or "Olen pahoillani, en puhu Englanti" if I am in Finland or "Robert Frost" if I am speaking to an elderly gent. But when I do come upon the No Who Is It? type I say quite simply:

"It is David Kirby."

Love,

Crispy Flotilla

or: David Kirby on suurin runoilija kirjoittaa tänään, again, when I am in Finland*

Last night I sat and stared at Lana Cantrell's 1969 album THE SIXTH OF LANA. It's such a great title and such a great look. I thought: if only I could somehow bring in JMW Turner, that delightful 18th century English landscaper painter of whale ships and man overboards, then I could somehow marry the two off and Lana Cantrell could not only go whaling but would also be Lana Turner.

The problem, as you might have guessed, is that I had no idea who did the photography for the Lana Cantrell album, THE SIXTH OF LANA.

Enter, the internet!

Now, thanks to a delightful little site called http://compujer.com/lps/framethree.php, I not only know that some guy named Skrebneski photographed the very Lana Cantrell for THE SIXTH OF LANA, but also that Corky McCoy did the cover art for Miles Davis' ON THE CORNER.

And there's more! Look it:

Album Catalog

1. Beck Mellow Gold 1994 art direction/design: Robert Fisher. photos: Ross Harris & John Skalickey. Last Man After Nuclear War built by Eddie.

19. Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon 1973 photos: Tony May and Strom Thorgerson. NOTE: in the mid 1980s I met a guy at a record show who bragged about paying $300 or so for this LP that had the spectrum colors reversed.

20. Tchaikovsky: Nutcracker Suite and Piano Concert No. 1

21. Papa M Live from a Shark Cage 1999 photo by Valery Yakushev from a wall in the "Park of Culture" subway station in Moscow.

83. Kraftwerk Trans-Europe Express 1977 NOTE: readers of Jerome may be interested to know that the man on the left looks almost exactly like "The Aristocrat" character in the "The Office Gossip" (2004).

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Today I discovered that schreierpfeife, a double reed medieval instrument, is a deviation from schreien (to cry or scream) in Italian, as in, for example: “Please! I beg of you!” The old Italian man shreiened, “Do not take my schreierpfeife!”

Today I decided, “If Lydia Davis says that Buddy Ebsen is OK, then Buddy Ebsen is also OK.” Although as far as I know Lydia Davis has not said Buddy Ebsen is OK.

Today I discovered that Hugh Beaumont had a rather impressive hook shot even when he was old enough to play Ward Cleaver in LEAVE IT TO BEAVER and even when he was wearing double pleated pants which draped his form quite nicely, especially during the hook shot.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Today I watched STATE FAIR. It almost opens with IT MIGHT AS WELL BE SPRING and I thought to myself ACH DU LIEBER HIMMEL this is going to be an amazing bunch of songs I don’t care if there is no plot at all just songs only to discover that the whole thing is pretty much is just no plot and one song and it is IT MIGHT AS WELL BE SPRING it keeps popping up over and over everybody is singing it and just when you think it will stop the carousel ride comes by and VERFLUCHT! there’s no escape from IT MIGHT AS WELL BE SPRING, nowhere to go nowhere to hide! It might as well be Spring! Although it is quite a terrific song I think it will now haunt my dreams which actually would be a relief from all the cockroach ones with those cliffs and jelly messes.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

At first I thought I had read: “I now play Champlain” which was nice, really. “Now I am playing Lake Champlain.” Of all the lakes I have ever heard of, Lake Champlain is the one that I have wanted to play the most. Why? Because it sounds so much like this: “Champagne” which, in French, is pronounced like this: Champagne.

When suddenly, I woke up from my dream of playing Champlain to realize it was really Champagne I was playing. Not playing with, which would be nice. Just playing. I had a dream about that. Skating across a river of Champagne. I was in New York state, and I was a very accomplished skater. I wore a turtleneck sweater. I was playing. Slowly I drifted into Canada. I became concerned. This is getting serious, which isn’t like playing at all. “Woe!” I stated.

But the border was filled with fur trappers and there was no escape from, well, them. But I am not kidding, I do know how to skate. But how could I play Champagne if I was skating on Champagne on a lake, in New York state, Lake Champlain. Look at their eyes, they are like little red mouse eyes in the dark. I am not afraid; I am charmed. Je suis charmin, Champlain. There is a beautiful place that I don’t know. That’s where Lake Champlain is. I squeeze its irresistable softness between my hands. Lake, and it is with Champlain Champagne, that I often find comfort, served in tiny cups, clear as crystal, and exceedingly often.

A final note: Champlain was named after one Samuel de Champlain, in celebration of his marriage to a young lady with three accent marks over her name. “How I play now, with Champlain” is what dear Hélène Boullé said. Which she would. Which makes me wonder: How now, could I play Boullé? No way, said Samuel, who always wanted to be called ‘José.’ Most might say: No way, as did Samuel, née, José. However, Hélène would oblige. Wrapped in fur, she approached him beguilingly and people fell into the ice. "Ah, José," she would say. It was a jolly good marriage, although one never knows.

Today it was quiet after the movie. The stars shone brightly. The house was lonely. The refrigerator buzzed a little bit. people laughed outside the house and inside one house someone was taking a bath. When suddenly, out of nowhere, it was my birthday and the house was filled with small batch chocolates from bean to bar, 60-81% cacao and vodka wrapped in a coat of cocoa and caramel and kirsch and the floor was covered in straw. It was my favorite birthday ever! Except for my first.

Friday, December 11, 2009

It just gets weirder and weirder. Just when he is about to die, a train comes through his room and two funny looking guys, one with a mustache and both with little golden wings on their helmets, scoop him up from bed and take him on the train with them. Not to heaven–to some cloudy place with lots of fences–on yet another train! And clouds inside and outside this train, too!

Everyone gets to sit in their prescribed Death Room–and he unfortunately gets to sit in the Suicide Room (because that was his schtick) where several characters are relaxing in the lounge compartment-dealy and chattering a lot about this and that and how they did it, all rather boring ways, too, like poison and window jumping, guns, etc. And THEY all have mustaches. I guess having a mustache makes you want to kill yourself. Also, big eyeballs.

This time in the Suicide Room telling Death Stories seems to go on forever, although it was only probably thirty seconds, still, too long, and finally, his name is called, and he is brought before–not God–no–but some mid-level type–a little too much like the love child of Don Ameche and David Niven to really be really impressive and bigger than life–and so Don/David Ameche/Niven what-have-you offers him a cigarette from a shiny silvery heaven cigarette case as he bestows upon him his ‘thoughts on life and responsibility’ while sitting comfortably on some kind of whitey marshmallow sofa and somehow, somehow, he is convinced to give Mr. Suicide another chance on earth, but not before ten years in ‘The Hot Place’ (his words, I would never have thought of that) after which he will be able to return to earth and see his child who was as yet unborn when he decided to stick a knife in his chest, which I understand is an extremely difficult thing to do–physically, I mean, (emotionally, who knows?) but then again, I really don’t know. Nor do I care to.

Luckily, this mid-level God agent Niven/Ameche guy thoughtfully gifts Hell-Bound Suicide Boy a pair of Smoke Glasses for the occasion, although I don’t know what that means or what you do with them–wear them I guess–and ten years pass by in a jiffy, ten years you don’t even get to see, which is odd, because in general they are not so skimpy and you see a lot of other things earlier, like his wife’s dress, which is rather sheer and nipple-friendly, yessir, and makes you wonder why anyone married to Mrs. Wife Sheer Dress/Well Defined Nipples would commit suicide or even think about it–I wouldn’t, but once he has done that and then his time in HP he is sweaty, of course, and he is anxious (very) to return to see his little girl and so he hops aboard train #3 or #4 it’s hard to say, very ready for a new life or whatever it is supposed to be from now on.

Oh when will Gabriel blow his horn to signal the time is neigh for these from-now-on things? Well he, Gabriel, finally makes an appearance, and finally does do it, and for some reason Gabriel looks like David Ogden Stiers or maybe Burl Ives, I can’t decide, but somehow neither rather than both, but definitely not your classic Gabriel at all, but he is definitely dapper, dressed in a somewhat unexpected South of the Mason/Dixon White Formalwear, just like Colonel Sanders, no question about that, although can’t play the horn for beans! Some Gabriel. This heaven, I decided, is pretty low rent. Still, that doesn’t matter, cause he can hear the horn and gets back on Cloudy Train and returns (quite quickly, I am always confused by things that don’t take time) to see his little girl playing in the backyard of what was his house pre-death. She’s fairly cute, etc., and heavy on the normal. But after all the excitement he overplays his hand with her, naturally, being jittery with joy and lonely and salivating and sweaty, and the little girl, who seems to be a polite little girl (maybe a little too cute, if you want my opinion) says that she really has no wish to open the fence to someone so CREEPY AND WEIRD. God, we have all been there, haven’t we?

And of course this sort of thing just makes him more desperate, and then what follows naturally, creepier and weirder than ever. Until finally, with no hope left, he gives her sweet little absent daddy face a good slap–didn't see that one coming– and POOF! He disappears into the black and white heaven dust. Fini. Yet his daughter, nameless, unless you count “Darling” is surprisingly nonchalant about the POOF! Disappearing Creepy Weird Guy. And then a little, for some reason, philosophical–always nice.

“Mother,” the little girl, whatever her name is, asks, “Have you ever had someone slap you on the face really hard, and it didn’t hurt at all? And it felt just like ... a kiss?” WHAT? I think, THE HELL? As I said, it just gets weirder and weirder.

But not for them. Mother looks into the sky dreamily. And she gives it a big pause.

“All the time,” she says to her daughter, now ten years and counting, who someday, eventually, Mother is going to have to name. I mean it. This girl needs to be called something. Anything. Daddyless Ten Year Old Girl won’t do. I am serious as a heart attack here. Hey. Let’s go.